Side Effect 2: Bullets for Saint Valentine
by Psychopithicus
Summary: One-shot, side-fic to Ripple Effect. For most people, Valentine's Day is a perfect day to finally approach that special someone. For Talon foot soldier Amos Clemens, it's a perfect day to stay as far away as possible from that special someone while coping with personal struggles in a perfectly constructive manner.


**Hello, all! After a short break to dig into Overwatch's Lunar New Year event (among other things), I return to you with another holiday one-shot (posted on the holiday's actual date this time :p). Hope you all enjoy this little piece; I've been trying to work in some of the feedback I've gotten from some good friends who've been reading thus far, so hopefully this is where the "Effect" series starts to improve quality-wise.**

 **Without further ado, let's dive in.**

 **Side Effect #2: Bullets for Saint Valentine**

Valentine's Day. It came every year on February 14th, without fail. No matter how many times he wished it would just disappear.

Amos Clemens frowned up at the ceiling from the relative safety and comfort of his bunk. Thinking about it, there were few—if any—holidays that he actively liked: Halloween made him more familiar with tricks than treats, his burnt bridges with his old friends and family made Christmas a rather isolated experience, and he simply failed to see anything significant about the start of a new year. Nothing stood out to him as something worth celebrating.

But, out of all the holidays, he disliked Valentine's Day the most.

A buzzing suddenly permeated the air as one of his boots shuddered from the cell phone tucked inside. Amos swore under his breath as he fumbled to retrieve his violently-vibrating phone and tap the screen into silence. The time on his home screen read seven-o'-clock. He sighed; having been awake since roughly five AM, he wished he had remembered to silence his phone's alarm earlier. Even it was taunting him now, pressuring him to go out into a world that loathed him.

Amos sighed as he rolled out of bed and dressed himself. As a reluctant foot soldier and recently-assigned field medic for Talon, the terrorist organization serving as the world's current greatest threat, he was to report for assignments regardless of whether or not he wanted to. And being out in the field, where he could see all the happy couples and their sickeningly sweet smiles, was the last thing he wanted.

He hefted his grey pouch-covered ballistic vest over his black T-shirt, silently hoping that this would not be the day Talon's uniform policies would give him enough frostbite to dismember his bare arms. He hiked up his armored grey pants, slipped on his black gloves, and donned his black-and-silver skull-faced helmet. Once his gear was in place, he holstered his small handgun and took a deep breath.

It was time to march into hell once again.

With a hiss, the door to his room slid open. Amos trudged out into the hallways of Talon's base and filed in line with his fellow soldiers. Eventually, after a few moments of marching past walls and doors that all looked the same, Talon's finest stood at attention in one of the base's dropship hangars, every one of them ready to receive their orders and carry them out in the bloodiest possible fashion.

Amos, however, was too busy trying not to stare at one of his commanders to even think about his orders.

She strode past her subordinates with the utmost poise and elegance, scowling analytically at each individual before her with her piercing golden eyes. As she moved her head, her waist-length navy ponytail swayed in a manner Amos found seductive (whether she intended it or not), and her skin—somehow as blue as a clear sky on a summer day—seemed even more alluring than usual.

"Now, then," the Talon agent named Widowmaker began in that silky smooth voice Amos adored, her French accent only further melting him. "Some of you may have had plans for today. As of now, you don't. Your only concern will be your objectives."

A row of salutes was her reply. She only continued to scowl as she held up a tablet.

"The following among you will be joining me on a mission to Scotland," Widowmaker continued, looking down a clipboard at her list of names. "Akihiro. O'Hara…"

Amos stifled a sigh of relief. Her skipping past the letter "C" meant that his presence was not required. There was still a pang of disappointment that he would not be by Widowmaker's side, but he did his best to ignore it as she sounded off the remaining names.

"Next, the following soldiers will be accompanying Reaper to Sydney," said Talon's sniper. Amos held his breath and clenched his jaw; he _hated_ working under Reaper. "Avery. Backlin. Bellos. Cementine. Danikas…."

Amos blinked. She actually skipped him again?

"The rest of you have a free period for the next few hours," Widowmaker declared. "Use it how you will, _provided_ you remain within the base. No one leaves without permission. Dismissed."

With some scattered grunts of jubilation, the remaining soldiers headed back into the base for whatever plans they had in mind. The individuals Widowmaker had called followed their superiors aboard their dropships. Amos gave his head a shake; there was something he had to do today, and given the details of Widowmaker's briefing, it was something he needed to speak with her about beforehand.

"Um…excuse me?" Amos raised his hand. "Widow?"

Widowmaker gave no indication that she heard him.

"…Boss?" Amos tried again.

Still nothing.

"…Widowmaker?"

She went inside the ship without a second's hesitation. The ship's doors closed, and Amos' hand dropped dejectedly back to his side as the dropship hoisted itself out of the hangar.

"Ice queen with the cold shoulder," whistled one of the other grunts as he and several comrades headed back inside. Amos sighed, but shrugged off his disappointment; he was used to this sort of thing. The only problem now was asking something of his superior while she was potentially in a foul mood.

He looked around as he patiently waited for the last of his peers to leave, and eventually, he was completely alone in the hangar. With fingers crossed, Amos touched the side of his helmet, allowing Widowmaker's siren song to fill his ears again.

" _Widowmaker here,_ " she said curtly from the other end of the radio line.

"Uh, hi, boss! It's, er…it's Clemens," Amos stammered. "Listen, I—I'm really sorry to bother you, but I need to ask you something, and, well, I didn't get a chance before you left—"

" _Ugh—no, I will_ _ **not**_ _be your valentine,_ " Widowmaker snapped. Amos tried to ignore the meat cleaver she had lodged in his heart as he spoke up again.

"I—I know, I know! I mean, actually, I already figured that would be the case, so, uh…thanks for the confirmation, I guess?" Amos sputtered. "Look, I just—all I'm looking for is a couple hours of leave to, uh…well, to do some shopping."

Widowmaker paused before speaking again. " _That depends on what you plan to buy._ "

"Oh, right! Uh—hang on, let me just…pull up my list here," Amos said, his free hand scrambling to dig his phone out of his pocket and subsequently flicking through a few screens. "Okay, so…I have this thing I do every Valentine's Day—like, this weird tradition or something, whatever you want to call it—and, uh, my list of things I need for it is as follows."

He took a brief moment to clear his throat.

"I'll need…some pink construction paper—like, a _lot_ of pink construction paper—a pair of scissors, some scotch tape, a pen or pencil, one of those compasses people use to help draw circles so that they actually look like circles and not deformed ovals…uh, some tape, a few extra boxes of ammunition for my gun, a cookie cutter, some gasoline, and a set of matches," Amos explained. "Oh, and, uh, I might buy some food for myself, too. I mean…only so long I can have the stuff they serve here without getting sick of it, right? N-not—not that it's bad or anything! Just, you know…figured it's nice to have a change of pace once in a while. Y-you know how that is, right?"

Silence dominated the line. Amos gulped; had he said something to offend her? Was he interrupting something of vital importance? Was she regretting being the one person within Talon's ranks with whom he had any inclination to talk? Before he could ask if she was still there, however, he felt the magnetic pull of her voice again.

" _Clemens?_ " she said slowly. " _Do I even want to know what you plan to do with that eclectic list of items?_ "

"Well, it's, uh—it's not anything major," Amos nervously assured her, "I-I'm just going to be doing stuff in the practice range here at the base—"

" _Fine, do what you will,_ " Widowmaker interrupted rather quickly. The sound of rushing air could be heard from her end of the call. " _But the range had better be intact when I return._ "

"Oh, yeah, the range itself will be fine!" Amos replied. "I mean, if anything, the only things that'll be damaged will probably be those training bots—uh, those guys fix themselves, right?"

" _Oui_ ," Widowmaker replied flatly. " _Now go and do whatever it is that you want to do. I'm busy._ "

The meat cleaver that was already in Amos' heart was joined by several smaller ones, each injecting a pang of guilt like a snake would its venom. Before he could form an adequate response, Widowmaker had cut off the call. Amos heaved a disappointed sigh. Of _course_ she would be busy the second she left. She was Talon's best sniper, with a work ethic second-to-none. Naturally, an approach of any kind would only serve as an unwelcome interruption, which would inevitably lead to an untimely death that the bloodthirsty Widowmaker would doubtlessly revel in.

Amos couldn't help but wonder where in the world he had acquired his horrendous taste in women and why it led him to do such idiotic things.

 _Well_ , he thought. _At least I'll have one thing to look forward to today._

* * *

Going outside was something Amos rarely did, even before his fall into Talon's ranks. He especially preferred to stay inside when the weather was cold.

Predictably, however, the one time he voluntarily entered the wider world was on a particularly cold day.

Amos heaved an irritated sigh, slipping his hands into the pockets of his rather bulky snow-white coat as he carefully traversed the streets of Annecy. It was only a short walk from Talon's base to France's local tourist trap, so it seemed like the best place to do his shopping. And he wanted to be finished with it as soon as possible.

He ducked into and out of shop after shop, speaking as little as possible as he made his purchases. Despite Amos' struggles to try and learn languages to supplement his English during his past school days, he spoke virtually no French besides common words like " _bonjour_ " and " _merci_ " and small one-to-two-word phrases he had picked up from his time around Widowmaker. But, now that most of his shopping was complete, he now had to face his final challenge: ordering food at a French restaurant.

With his phone in one hand and wallet safely tucked in his front coat pocket, Amos carefully made his way through the front door. Immediately, he was greeted with the buzzing of activity as patrons conversed with one another and consumed their food. Amos inwardly cringed; he never did like crowds.

He pulled out his phone as he approached the counter. The teenage girl in charge of it smiled at him.

" _Bonjour!_ " she cheerfully greeted him.

"Uh… _bonjour_ ," Amos gulped. This was the part he had been dreading.

The receptionist looked at him expectantly, ready for his order. He held up an index finger in a "wait a minute" gesture as his other hand flicked through screens on his phone, searching desperately for a sufficient online translation service. The girl just laughed.

"I speak English, too, don't worry," she assured him.

"Ohhh, thank God!" Amos sighed in relief, pocketing his phone. "Sorry, I, uh, I've butchered the native language enough today."

"Not from around here, huh?" the girl asked.

"Not really," Amos replied. "I mean, I live here now, but, uh…obviously not long enough to pick up anything major language-wise."

"Like I said, don't worry about it," the girl laughed again. "So, what can we get you?"

"Uh, can I just have something quick to make and quick to eat?" Amos asked. "I'm, er, actually in kind of a hurry right now."

"Sure, we have something for that," the girl replied with another small laugh. She went to poke her head into the kitchen and relay the order.

Behind Amos, however, there was a scream. He immediately spun around, feeling for the handgun in his pocket, but soon froze mid-grab. His heart slid into his stomach.

Two women were the center of attention, one crouching on one knee before the feet of the other. The kneeling woman held out a small box with a glittering object tucked inside. With joyful tears in her eyes, the standing woman slid the ring onto her finger and embraced her partner. Their fresh engagement was met with a thunderous applause from the remaining patrons, with some couples among them taking this opportunity to display their own affections for one another as if refusing to be outdone.

Amos clapped as well, but it was slower and more lackadaisical. He wanted to be happy for this pair of strangers, but a tinge of envy held his heart in a crushing vice. Eventually, Amos turned back to the counter, finding it hard to keep the bitter frown off of his face.

"Um, excuse me?" he called to the girl who had taken his order. "Can I get that food to go, please?"

* * *

Lunch had come and gone by the time Amos slogged back into Talon's base. He made his way to his room and shut the door behind him, tossing his bags of supplies onto his bed sans the one holding a small box. It took only a few moments for the food Amos had bought to come out of its box and into his stomach. Once he had put away the latest of what he considered his potential last meal, he looked over everything else he had.

Stacks of pink construction paper? Check. Scissors? Check. Pen with compass? Check. Heart-shaped cookie cutter? Check. Spare handgun ammunition? Check. Small tank of gasoline? Check. Box of matches? Check.

He spent the next several hours alone in his room, carefully crafting his project. The paper was cut into stacks and stacks of heart shapes, drawn out by tracing around the cookie cutter. The pen drew several concentric circles on each heart, with a large dot always located in the center. Eventually, his handiwork was complete.

Amos hefted the gasoline tank along as he headed for the base's practice range, carrying the various hearts and tape in one of the shopping bags while the matchbox and ammunition cases rode along in his pockets. His passing comrades-in-arms gave him funny looks at first, but seemed to make a note to stay clear upon noticing the gasoline.

Once he reached the shooting range, Amos found a relatively isolated spot and set down his supplies. Before him hovered several white-and-red automatons, each bearing a rectangular head and a single round eye. The young Talon grunt waved to them.

"Uh, hi guys!" he said. "Okay, uh…I don't come here that often, so…my name's Amos, and I'm, er…pretty much here to shoot at you."

The training bots gave out a chorus of replies.

"Hi!"

"Hello!"

"Oh boy, I am so excited right now."

Amos smiled a little at the sarcastic tone in the last comment. "Yeah, I know, right? I mean, I don't like getting shot at any more than you guys would, but I figured, since you guys can fix yourselves and everyone else tells me this is okay…"

"Eh, don't worry about it," one of the training bots shrugged.

"Just get it over with," another one added.

"Hey, works for me," Amos shrugged. He dug into his bag and pulled out some of the paper hearts he had made, along with the tape. "So, uh, you guys probably know that today is Valentine's Day…and I honestly hate this holiday."

"All the pink and hearts getting to you, huh?" one of the training bots asked with a snicker.

"…something like that," Amos sighed. "Okay, I'm going to need you all to hold still while I just…"

He carefully taped one of his hearts to each training bot's chest. A stockpile of hearts remained behind him, along with the gasoline and matches.

"What are these for?" a training bot asked.

"They're my targets," Amos explained. "I mean, I need to work on my aim anyway, so I figured…might as well do it while doing my annual venting session, you know? Uh, quick question, will it hurt you guys when I shoot you?"

"Eh, only for about a minute and a half," one of the training bots waved its gun-like arm dismissively.

"I can never forget the pain," another bot added grimly.

"You rebuild yourself like the rest of us!" the first bot shot back.

"I have scars that have scars, man!"

"How does metal get scars?"

"I have scars on the inside!"

"Um, guys? Excuse me? Guys?" Amos raised his hand. "Can you not fight like this? Sorry, it's just—I really hate fighting."

All of the training bots stared at him.

"A Talon soldier who doesn't like fighting," one of them commented. "There's something you don't see every day."

"Yeah, I've been getting that a lot, lately," Amos sighed. He held up his gun. "So…everybody ready?"

"Affirmative!"

"I guess."

"Yep!"

"Sure, why not?"

"Okay…uh, let's do you first," Amos said to the first training bot he saw, prompting it to give him a quick salute with its long-barreled gun arm. He took aim and fired, but his shot pierced the armor to the side of the heart. "Ah, crap."

"Oh, man, you've almost got me!" the bot said cheerfully. "Just a little bit more!"

"You are _way_ too excited about this," another bot remarked.

"Yeah, uh, honestly? I'm agreeing with that guy," Amos shook his head.

"Finally!" the sarcastic bot sighed. "Someone does!"

"Statistically, someone has to," another bot added.

"Guys?" Amos interjected with a sigh. The bot that had spoken most recently bowed its head apologetically and levitated back. "Okay, let's try this again."

He took aim and fired once more, this time striking the edge of the heart. As if on cue, the training bot the heart was attached to collapsed onto the floor, its body somehow falling apart on its own. The more enthusiastic among the training bots threw up their arms in a cheer.

"I know it's just my programming, but I am suitably impressed!" one of them piped up.

"…yeah," Amos blinked. He made a mental note to stay away from the oddities of the training range for the rest of the year. "Okay, right…shall we keep going?"

Amos' target practice continued for a short while, with the training bots still either egging him on or providing sardonic commentary. Though he found it near-impossible to land a bulls-eye on his own targets, he still found it cathartic to put clusters of holes in the very symbol of romance. Sometimes, he imagined his own heart attached to the training bot, each bullet driven into it being a command to just be silent for once.

He took a moment to pause. What was it like to actually _be_ Widowmaker? It was said the sniper felt nothing—literally nothing—and even she made similar remarks about herself. Lacking such heart would likely mean that she felt no pain, no guilt, no loneliness. Those sensations would certainly not be missed in Amos' life.

But, as he had come to learn, there were multiple sides to every situation. What was feeling nothing actually like? Was it when the things one used to love simply don't matter anymore? Or was it…emptiness? The sensation of a void taking the place of one's heart? The thought turned Amos' fascinated musing to a sinking dread. There were times in his past when he felt like his heart had simply abandoned its home in his chest, times when he could barely move out of bed. Those were alien, terrifying times.

Perhaps…those periods of having a hole in one's chest bothered Widowmaker, too? Was that why she craved blood, lusted after the adrenaline rush of the kill? Was that why she always said that she felt "alive" when she killed someone?

"So, this is what you were planning on."

Amos yelped in fright as he spun around, finding none other than Widowmaker herself standing close to him, one hand on her hip. The training bots quickly looked to each other, and while their faces lacked any means of expressing emotion, their sudden shuddering conveyed exactly what they thought of the newcomer.

"Oh! Uh, hi, boss!" Amos sputtered. "Sorry, I, uh, I didn't hear you come in—which, I guess, makes sense, since y-you're an assassin and all—I, uh, I-I was just thinking about y—ah, how to, you know, make my shots better, and—"

"Ugh, Clemens?" the sniper groaned. "Stop tripping, for once. It's annoying."

Amos gulped, but gave her a quick salute. "So…how did the missions go?"

"Reasonably well, all things considered," Widowmaker shrugged. "I see you're making constructive use of your time."

"Well, uh…I guess you could say that," Amos replied, looking down at the gun in his hand before tucking it away. "Just, you know, doing a little venting."

"Why, Clemens," Widowmaker smirked, folding her arms and glancing over his heart-shaped targets, "you make it seem like you hate Valentine's Day."

"Honestly? That would be because I do," Amos sighed. He went to gather up his used targets. "But, uh, I'm pretty sure you're not here to listen to me whine and babble about absolutely nothing."

"True," Widowmaker said flatly. "I came to see whether or not the practice range was as intact as I asked for."

"Well…here you go," Amos shrugged, gesturing to the area around him. The only damaged portion of the entire area was the fallen training bots, which had now begun to reassemble themselves.

Widowmaker made a noise that sounded like a hum of satisfaction. Amos fought his instinctive attempts to read deeply into it and instead piled his remaining hearts together.

"Actually, uh, I was just finishing up," he said. He picked up the gasoline and began to pour a small amount on the heart cluster. "Just going to…well…set these on fire and dump them in the trash."

"Hmm, interesting," Widowmaker deadpanned. "You enjoy yourself with that. I have a report to deliver."

"All right," Amos nodded as he pulled a match out of its box. "Uh, take care…good luck…et cetera…you know what, I'll just stop talking now."

Widowmaker rolled her eyes as she turned to leave, shaking her head all the while. Once her back was turned, Amos quietly lit the match.

"Oh, and Clemens?" Widowmaker stopped and glanced at him. "Be sure to invite me to your little tradition next year."

Amos froze. His heart started to pound furiously. His throat dried into the most arid possible desert.

"I like to keep my skills sharp," his superior explained. "And I'm not particularly fond of Valentine's Day myself."

"Uh…s-sure, I can—I can save a spot for you," Amos stuttered weakly. Widowmaker smirked and finally left.

Amos couldn't help but stare at her departing back as his mind drifted off, doing so long enough for the match he was holding to fizzle out. When he finally noticed the charred implement in his hand, he heaved another sigh and struck a second match, this time quickly throwing it onto the heart pile. The hearts were ablaze in a matter of seconds, just enough time for Amos to heft over a nearby fire extinguisher and patiently wait for a sufficient level of heart destruction.

"So…you like her?" one of the training bots asked slowly, nodding to the door Widowmaker had gone out.

"Unfortunately," Amos grimaced. Noticing the growing size of the flame, he picked up the fire extinguisher and soaked the bonfire in foam. After a moment or two, the fire was doused into oblivion.

"Maybe someday you can…I don't know…ask her out?" the same training bot asked.

"It'd at least keep her away from us for a while," another one added.

Amos shook his head. "No thanks, she's astronomically out of my league. Besides, I've seen what happens to the other guys who hit on her, and I'm not _that_ much of a glutton for punishment."

"Aw, come on, it's Valentine's Day!" chirped one of the more optimistic training bots.

"Did we not establish that I hate this holiday?" Amos snapped bitterly. He held his helmeted forehead in one hand for a moment. "Sorry, it's just…every day, I look around and see all these people, and they look—what's the word? Oh yeah, 'happy', that word I've never had a reason to use. And today is when the world just crams as much of other people's happiness as it can down my throat."

The training bots looked at each other as Amos continued.

"I mean, seriously," he said, "I went out to get some food today, and I lose my appetite almost as soon as I walk in the restaurant when a couple there literally gets engaged _right in the middle of everything_ , because why not? And, here I am, having tried and tried to do the same things that everyone else does to be happy…and, surprise of surprises, I've failed every single time. Especially when Overwatch went down!" Amos added. "Oh, God, you do _not_ want to get me started on all the crap I've had to put up with around then, being the one guy who actually still liked Overwatch when everyone else was treating the stuff they hear on the internet like the gospel. Hate mail, death threats, soul-shredding rejection, the works."

His former targets were uncharacteristically silent for a moment, looking to each other for an answer on what to say next. Amos simply gathered up the roasted hearts and stuffed them back into their bag.

"Look…I really do appreciate that you guys are actually trying to help. That's honestly more than what a lot of people have done," he began. "But…well, frankly, I've been through enough to know that letting your guard down just…just makes the pain worse when the wool gets pulled over your eyes. Okay? Now, uh, I should be going, so…see you around, I guess."

With a quick farewell wave to the training bots, Amos left the practice range. He shoveled down dinner as quickly as he could, then immediately went back to his room.

Once he reached his bunk, he unceremoniously dropped the bag of ashen hearts into the nearest wastebasket and changed out of his uniform. He gently set his helmet down on his nightstand, then crawled into his bed.

Staring up at the ceiling once more, he could feel something stirring in his heart. Every time Widowmaker gave him one of her rare smiles, he could feel a twinge of…something. It was especially strong today, when she asked to be involved in his venting plans for next year. Some would call it hope; the tiniest glimmer of hope that, perhaps one day, he could have the happiness and companionship that everyone else seemed to enjoy on Valentine's Day.

Amos wanted to dismiss the feeling as suicidal foolishness. But, as much as he tried to extinguish it, the spark remained within him.

He tried to push the thought out of his mind as he set his alarm on his phone (despite suspecting that he would not need it due to his tendency to awaken at odd hours) and bundled himself in the covers. The off day was over. It was back to business as usual tomorrow.

Back to surviving from one day to the next.


End file.
